


it started out with a kiss (how did it end up like this?)

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Blaine wakes up to see his face plastered over the front of the morning paper, he promptly drops his head on the table and groans. There’s a note at the top of the paper – obviously scribbled on hurriedly by one of his parents – which reads rather ominously, WE’LL TALK ABOUT THIS LATER.</p><p>Wonderful, Blaine thinks. Brilliant. Fantastic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in flagrante delicto

**Author's Note:**

> First off: I know jack about the american legal system. So, yeah, there may be inaccuracies in regards to that. Second off: I started writing this as a part of five and one fic I had going (five times Kurt saved Famous!Blaine, and one time it was the other way around) but this segment (initially titled 'SexScandal!Blaine') just grew and grew and grew, until it was longer than all of the other segments I had written put together. So here it is. Enjoy!

It’s one thing to be caught _in flagrante delicto_ with a complete stranger.

It’s another thing entirely to be caught on film with your hands down Henry Canterbury’s pants.

As a proud Dalton student, Blaine’s pretty up-to-date when it comes to the prominent politicians of the era. Even then, Henry’s father, Marcus Canterbury isn’t exactly the type of person who shies away from the media.

The papers love to hate Marcus Canterbury; he’s a caricature in every sense of the word. Anti-gay, anti-choice and antagonistic – Canterbury Sr. is currently the outspoken and controversial head of what Blaine and his friends like to refer to as the Gay Lynch Mob. He’s not someone Blaine respects or admires, and is most certainly not someone Blaine wants to be in _any_ way associated with.

Which is why, when Blaine wakes up to see his face plastered over the front of the morning paper, he promptly drops his head on the table and groans. There’s a note at the top of the paper – obviously scribbled on hurriedly by one of his parents – which reads rather ominously, _WE’LL TALK ABOUT THIS LATER._

Wonderful, Blaine thinks. Brilliant. _Fantastic._

* * *

 

School is an exercise in awkwardness.

Everyone knows it’s him in the photos on the front of the paper – or, at least, they suspect – but his name has yet to published anywhere – for which Blaine thanks God for small miracles – so no one’s really sure how to interact with him.

There’s an awful lot of staring, for one.

And an awful lot of whispering, for two.

Wes and David corner him at lunch, dropping into seats opposite him and staring at him with enough intensity that Blaine feels like he’s on trial. Blaine shifts his gaze away from their faces and nervously drums his fingers against the polished dark wood of the lunch table.

“So,” Wes starts after a silence that last far too long. “The paper this morning.” It comes out flat and unwelcoming – more of a statement than a queery.

“The paper this morning,” Blaine echoes. He’s really none-too-eager to talk about this with Wes and David, and decidedly unenthused by the prospect of the lecture Wes will no doubt give him on appropriate behaviour in public, or something like that.

Wes observes Blaine closely for a few seconds, before he says carefully, “That sort of thing’s really not like you.”

Blaine shrugs. He would _really_ rather avoid this conversation for now. “I was drunk,” he deflects.

At Wes’ disbelieving eyebrow raise, Blaine just shrugs again.

“It’s not like you to _get_ drunk,” David points out softly.

“Well, I did, and I was,” Blaine says, shrugging again, praying that they’ll just drop it. When he sees the look on Wes’s face – one which Blaine has dubbed _impending lecture_ – he knows just how likely _that_ is.

Before Wes can start what is no doubt a well-planned and well-researched speech on drunken behaviour and public indecency, they’re interrupted.

“So, it _was_ you in the paper,” comes a voice from above Blaine.

Blaine looks up to see Jeff’s grinning face. The Warbler cheerfully flicks Blaine on the nose before he drops down into a seat next to Blaine, reaching across the table and stealing the apple from David’s lunch tray.

“Hey!” David calls, reaching for the apple, but Jeff pre-empts him by taking a large bite out of it.

Mouth full of half-chewed apple, Jeff continues, “I mean, I saw it on the paper this morning and was like, _Blaine’s either got a freaky doppelganger running around, or, well, Blaine’s probably got a freaky doppelganger running around because there’s no way in hell this is him._ I didn’t think it was actually you.”

“Well,” Blaine shrugs, looking anywhere but at the mouthful of masticated apple. “Surprise?”

“Hell yeah, surprise,” adds Nick, who’s approaching their table with his own lunch tray. “I sprayed an entire mouthful of orange juice across my kitchen when I saw your face on the paper, and then sprayed yet another one when I saw what you were _doing_ in the photos.”

“I was drunk,” Blaine points out feebly.

“You must have been _fucking_ plasteredto the walls,” Jeff states, waving his half-eaten apple around as he makes his point. “I mean, even _I_ have standards, and _no,_ just _no._ _Please_ tell me you at least got paid for that.”

Nick clouts Jeff around the ears. “Of course he didn’t get paid, Jeff,” he hisses, before turning to Blaine. “You didn’t get paid for that, did you?” he asks, sounding legitimately concerned.

Blaine sighs. “I do many stupid things, Nick, the latest of which has been broadcast to the nation,” he says softly, “but soliciting sexual encounters for money is not one of them.”

“The ethics student in me is proud that you’ve seen fit to draw that line,” David says, “but the ruthless business studies student in me is disappointed you didn’t cash in on the moment.”

“I repeat,” Blaine says. “I was drunk. And right now I’m kind of wishing I was.”

The four other students share a look.

“What’s the tally?” Nick asks.

Blaine skewers a piece of lettuce on his plate. “Four notes with ‘ _fag_ ’, seven with ‘ _freak_ ’, two ‘ _cockslut_ ’s and one ‘ _backgammon player_ ’ – whatever the hell that means.”

“Oh, that one was me,” Jeff admits. “It’s eighteenth century British slang.”

Wes, David, Nick and Blaine all stare at him.

“What?” Jeff asks. “You’d think with all the media attention surrounding this, people would start to get a bit more creative with their slurs, but _no,_ it’s all about sticking to the _classics_ , and, well, you know what they say. If you want something done properly, do it yourself.”

Nick looks like his reflexes are caught between clouting Jeff again and facepalming. He eventually settles on sighing deeply, regarding his roommate with exasperation. “Sometimes I wonder whose great idea it was to send you to a school with a zero-tolerance harassment policy,” he says. “It just seems like your parents were desperate for an expulsion on your record.”

Jeff shrugs unashamedly. “You’d have to ask them.”

“I would, but I’m sort of terrified out of my skin to meet the combination of genetics that gave rise to someone like you,” David confesses, shaking his head.

“Jeff’s chronic lack of tact aside,” Wes says, “you should take this to the Head. We have a zero-tolerance policy for a reason, Blaine.”

“And have him do what?” Blaine asks. “I’m pretty lucky he’s not expelling me as it is, Wes. I don’t know about you, but I like to think that being photographed with your hand down a guy’s pants is in opposition with a rather large portion of the Dalton Honour Code, and, aside from Jeff’s, I have no idea who sent these notes.”

“They could check the handwriting,” Nick points out.

“It wouldn’t be worth it,” Blaine says firmly. “Look, guys, I get that you’re concerned for me and all, but I’m fine. Right now, all I want is to get through this day, get home and survive the lecture I _know_ my parents are going to give me.”

Wes’ eyes widen. “Oh, God, your parents.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees. “My parents. My dad is still in denial about me being gay and my mom is freakishly conservative. How well do you think this has gone down?”

“Well,” Jeff says cheerfully. “Look on the bright side, Blaine. I don’t think your dad’s going to be able to pretend you’re straight anymore.”

Blaine runs a hand through his gelled hair. “Really not up there on my list of priorities right now, Jeff.”

“Do you want to stay the night at mine?” Nick offers sympathetically.

Blaine shakes his head. “Might as well get this over with.”

* * *

 

**_ Marcus Canterbury’s Son Caught in the Act _ **

_Henry Canterbury, 21, was recently caught on film, engaged in none-too-savoury activities with an unidentified male, as shown below. The pair of them are backdropped by Scandals – a gay bar in Columbus, Ohio – and the unidentified male has his hand down the waistband of the younger Canterbury’s jeans._

_These recent pictures have thrown Marcus Canterbury, 52, and his politics into the limelight. Canterbury is outspokenly anti-gay, but refused to comment on the article. As it stands, the press are waiting for him to make his move…_

_( read more)_

* * *

 

The first thing Blaine thinks to say to his parents is, “It isn’t what you think.”

Which, quite frankly, is pretty stupid, because he’s lying; it’s _exactly_ what they think.

Jennifer Anderson just raises her eyebrows dangerously. She ignores his previous statement and slides a copy of the paper across the table to Blaine. “Explain,” she commands flatly.

Blaine opens his mouth, but his father cuts across him. “The truth, Blaine.”

Blaine closes his mouth.

He is _so_ fucking _grounded._

* * *

 

Blaine doesn’t really do rule-breaking.

Jeff likes to laugh at him about it, calling him a _prude,_ and teasing him about his spotless permanent record. Of course, that’s not exactly true, given that he does have one black mark on his permanent record – an expulsion from his old school for fighting – but his parents have long since decided not to count that.

The fact of the matter is that Blaine really hates rule-breaking.

It feels stupid and reckless and, why the hell should Blaine risk everything for a tiny adrenaline rush? He _likes_ being a prude, thank you very much, and if anyone has a problem with that, they can go screw themselves for all Blaine cares. Rules are there to keep people safe and they don’t work unless people obey them.

So, this? Sneaking out on the weekend and getting drunk at a gay bar in Ohio? It isn’t simply out of the ordinary for Blaine. It’s freaking unheard of.

But Blaine’s not about to try and excuse his behaviour to his parents. They don’t get it, really, just like they’ve never gotten him.

So, Blaine just sits silently as they yell at them – “ _What the hell were you thinking, Blaine, getting involved with **Marcus Canterbury’s** son?! This isn’t just dumb, Blaine; it’s criminally stupid!”_ – and bites down hard on his cheek so that he doesn’t speak out of turn.

Blaine hates that there’s a significant part of him that wonders just how much of this is to do with the pictures and how much of it is to do with him being gay.

Eventually, his parents run out of steam. His mother huffs at him, looking like the only things she has left to say aren’t suitable for a family situation, and his father stares at him, judgement lidding heavy on his hazel eyes. They tell him to go to his room.

Blaine complies.

This _sucks._

The only solace he can draw from it is that he’s still got his anonymity.

For now.

* * *

 

When Blaine’s phone goes off with Jeff’s ringtone at four o’clock in the morning, his only thought is that Jeff better to be really, really drunk and really, really stranded to be disturbing him at this time _especially_ given the crappy day he had yesterday.

The good news is that Blaine doesn’t have to get out of bed and fetch him.

The bad news is… Well, pretty bad.

_“Blaine, that night you were out, getting photographed feeling up Gay McCloseted,”_ Jeff says hurriedly, _“were you out with Sebastian?”_

“What?” Blaine asks blearily, blinking at the electronic display of his alarm clock through the half-gloom. God, it’s too early for this.

_“Did Sebastian take you to the club where you met Henry Canterbury?”_ Jeff presses.

Blaine pushes himself up in bed, yawning deeply into the phone. “Yeah,” he replies. “Why, though? And can this wait until later? I mean, I know you guys don’t really like the guy, but he’s my friend and he was in town for a weekend—”

_“Really not the time for this argument Blaine,”_ Jeff cuts him off. _“Listen, you need to check your twitter feed. Sebastian… He posted something about, well, you.”_

Blaine’s eyes snap forcefully open.

Shit.

* * *

**_Sebastian Smythe_ ** _(@SebbieDoesDallas)  
Thanks for a fun night out  @BlaineWarbler – though I think you had more fun than I did: [link]_


	2. c'est dans le besoin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, quickly. Story title from the Killer's song Mr Brightside. Chapter title from a French proverb, "C'est dans le besoin qu'on reconnait ses vrais amis." It means, "It's in times of need that one recognises their true friends." Why is it in French? Because the English equivalent rhymes and I like the French one better.
> 
> I'm terrible at putting warnings in, but I'll mention this one now. There is a non-graphic, one sentence reference to the rape and attempted suicide of a background character in this chapter. You have been warned.

**_Sebastian Smythe_ ** _(@SebbieDoesDallas)  
Thanks for a fun night out  @BlaineWarbler – though I think you had more fun than I did: [link]_

* * *

Everybody knows.

_Everybody_ fucking knows.

Somehow, Dalton’s unofficial blogging site – _The Bird’s Nest_ , run by some Gosspi Girl wannabe whose identity no one knows – manages to get the tweet up and online barely seconds after it’s posted, and, well _everyone_ at Dalton reads _The Bird’s Nest_.

* * *

 

**_THE BIRD’S NEST  
Blaine Anderson: Dalton’s very own Monica Lewinsky_ **

_It’s been a long time coming, Daltonites: our very own political sex scandal. And who better to take the leading role than our resident Show Choir Superstar, BLAINE ANDERSON (18, Junior)?_

_For those of you who remember Sebastian Smythe, an ex-Daltonite in his own right, we have him to thank for the ID on Blaine. It seems the two of them were out for a night of fun and reckless behaviour, and he sent this tweet on the incident._

_I’d have to agree with Smythe on this one. Blaine’s definitely having fun, and it’s most certainly not the innocent type. Hands south of the equator, anyone? And the other boy – Henry Canterbury, the son of a prominent conservative republican._

_I have to wonder, though: whatever does daddy-dearest think of all of this?_

* * *

Blaine comes in to school to find that it’s not just going to be awkward now; this is going to be _hell._ By second period, Blaine has already received twice the previous number of abusive notes, all of them anonymous, vicious, and – much to Jeff’s ever growing consternation – unimaginative. Even though Dalton students are far too put-together and _polite_ to say anything to Blaine’s face, they’re still more than happy to make obscene gestures at him in the hallways when no one’s looking, and to half-cough, half-spit slurs at him when they’re out of earshot of teachers.

It sucks when Blaine arrives at his locker during lunch break to find the words _dirty skank_ scrawled over it in sharpie.

It sucks when he goes to the headmaster about it and essentially gets a _well, what do you expect me to do about it, Blaine?_ in response.

It sucks when, two days later, someone leaks his personal mobile number to the press and he starts getting calls, asking for exclusives.

It sucks doubly when they find out his address and Blaine wakes up one morning to discover them camped out on his front lawn.

It sucks when his father sits him down one evening and demands a _tête-à-tête_ about _discretion_ and _reputation._

It sucks when Dalton’s careers advisor tells him that Blaine can kiss goodbye to any hopes he has at a prestigious university career, because this scandal isn’t going to die down any time soon.

But, most of all, it sucks when Henry Canterbury makes a last ditch attempt to save his skin, and starts to say that _the incident_ – that _fun_ little drunken encounter – was anything but consensual.

* * *

 

Getting arrested is not fun.

What’s even less fun? Getting arrested in the middle of a whole school assembly on internet safety.

Blaine’s pretty sure – scratch that, Blaine’s _certain_ – that the photos of him getting slammed against a wall and cuffed are going to end up on _The Bird’s Nest,_ and, if he’s really _, really_ lucky, the yearbook.

His parents post bail for him, which Blaine supposes is slightly reassuring, and help shield him from the glaring flashes of the cameras waiting for him outside the police station. They don’t say a single word the whole way back home.

It hits Blaine when he clambers, absolutely exhausted, into bed that night.

School tomorrow’s going to be _even more fun._

* * *

**_THE BIRD’S NEST  
Not So Innocent Fun, After All…_ **

_[PICTURE]_

_BLAINE ANDERSON (18, Junior) shook up a rather dull whole school assembly earlier today with his arrest for the sexual assault of Henry Canterbury. Look at those pearly whites – seems like a shot for the yearbook, doesn’t it?_

_Most likely to be convicted for a crime, perhaps?_

* * *

He’s not just a _fag_ anymore.

He’s a _deviant._ He’s a _predator._ He’s _sick._ He’s _repulsive._

Jeff should be happy, Blaine bitterly supposes. They’re finally getting a bit more creative with the name-calling.

Blaine fights the urge to duck his head as he crosses the hallway, very much aware of the way that every single pair of eyes in the hallway is tracking him, zeroing in on the hall-pass in his hand, knowing exactly where he’s heading.

Blaine catches Wes’ eyes across the hallway, receiving an imperceptible nod in return. Well, at least he’s not completely on his own. David passes by him and they make eye-contact, and Blaine adds his tally of allies up to two.

Nick and Jeff are next, hands clasped, a united front, both keeping their faces impossibly blank, but they too meet his gaze.

Four.

It’ll be enough. It’ll have to be enough.

Blaine pushes through a heavy, oak door, and comes to a stop in front of the headmaster’s secretary. She looks him up and down through narrowed eyes and severe spectacles, and Blaine watches slowly as the corners of her pursed lips tilt upwards into a sneer.

“He’ll see you now,” she says coldly.

Blaine nods and pushes through another oak door – this one marked with a proud bronze nameplate: _HEADMASTER’S OFFICE._

Blaine and Headmaster Vandemeer don’t exactly get on.

Dalton’s the kind of school that accepts entrants based on two things, and those two things alone: _brilliance_ and _pedigree._

One of those two is decidedly more important than the other. It’s not brilliance.

Blaine’s a good student. He maintains a 3.8, which is impressive, even by Dalton’s ludicrous standards, and has worked tirelessly to show everyone around him that he doesn’t need a glamorous heritage to be every bit the Dalton boy they all want to be.

He’s president of Deb Soc. He’s on the swim team. He’s lead-soloist for the Warblers. He’s polite. He’s welcoming. He’s _honourable._

But he still lacks that heritage, and, to a lot of people, all Blaine’s ever going to be is that up-start, too-smart-for-his-own-good kid who doesn’t know his place.

“Sit, Mr Anderson,” Headmaster Vandemeer commands flatly.

And Headmaster Vandemeer is most certainly one of those people.

Blaine obeys silently, gracelessly dropping into one of the leather chairs positioned opposite the headmaster’s grand mahogany desk. Blaine fixes his gaze on the Vandemeer’s face, tracing the contours of his wrinkles with his eyes.

“So, Mr Anderson,” Vandemeer starts, his tone not even shifting from its steady same pitch and volume. “I’m sure that you’re aware that you’ve received an awful lot of … negative publicity in recent weeks.”

_Oh, really?_ Blaine wants to ask. _So that’s what this has been about._

But Blaine doesn’t say anything of the sort. “Yes, I am aware,” is what he says instead.

Headmaster Vandemeer leans back in his chair, exhaling deeply. “Are you aware that Dalton has an honour code, Mr Anderson?”

Blaine knows where this is going. He’s not going to break composure, though, so he nods. “Yes,” he answers dutifully.

“And that your actions, which have been broadcast quite gratuitously to the nation, are in direct violation of that honour code?” Headmaster Vandemeer presses.

Blaine takes a deep breath, willing calm over himself. “Headmaster Vandemeer,” he says slowly. “I got arrested in front of the _entire school_ yesterday for _sexual assault._ People are treating me like I have a contagious disease. My parents aren’t speaking to me, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to be kicked out of no less than three school clubs. I need to write a six page Latin essay, complete a math exercise and somehow hire a lawyer, all in the next four hours before last period today. I’m _not_ having a good day. So, can you, please, please, in the interests of mercy, just tell me what you mean _quickly._ ”

Vandemeer regards Blaine coolly. “The school board and I,” he states, “think it might be best if you pursue other avenues of education at the end of the year.”

It’s essentially private school jargon for _we mean this in the nicest way possible, Blaine, but you’re expelled._

Blaine manages a grim smile. “Thanks for everything,” he says, layering the comment with thick irony, and then he leaves.

* * *

Dalton boys are nothing if not quick off the mark, Blaine guesses bitterly.

Jason Carver, the vice president of Deb Soc – Debating and Socratics, if the full name is required – corners Blaine almost the moment after he exits the headmaster’s office. Jason stands at a diminutive height of 5’ 6’’ – a whole two inches shorter than Blaine, which was part of the reason why Blaine initially liked the kid – and looks like the only thing he’ll be hitting any time soon will be the books, and, even then, it’s unlikely he’ll win any ensuing brawl.

As it turns out, his short, compact stature only means that his asshole-ish-ness is just slightly more concentrated than the rest of the Dalton student body.

“So I hope you’ll understand, Blaine,” Jason’s saying, unaware of the fact that Blaine’s barely listening. “You were a great leader, but unfortunately, those of us in the Debating and Socratics Society feel that it would be best if you were to—”

Blaine cuts him off there with a sharp gesture.

Normally, Blaine’s nothing but composed. An easy grin, or a sympathetic smile – never anything other than the _perfect Dalton boy._ Right now, Blaine’s not just having a colossally bad day, though. He’s having a colossally crap _year._

So, he thinks, _fuck it._ Fuck decorum. Fuck it all.

“You know what, Jason?” he asks. “Go screw yourself.”

Blaine would never cuss out loud at Dalton. Internalised thoughts are okay, but swearing’s just asking for trouble. Still, his statement is far more vulgar than Blaine has ever dared to utter and, if the reeling look in Jason’s eyes is anything to go by, completely unexpected.

Blaine’s about to turn and leave when Jason gets his second wind.

“I thought that was _your_ area of expertise, Blaine.”

Blaine doesn’t let it get to him.

“Even _I_ have standards, Jason,” he calls back over his shoulder.

* * *

“So, rumour has it _you_ made Jason Carver cry today.”

Blaine looks up from the mess he’s making of his poorly researched Latin essay to see the grinning face of his friend opposite him. Jeff looks – dare he say it – almost proud.

“Rumour has it wrong,” Blaine replies, dropping his pen down and leaning back in his seat. “There were no tears. At least, I don’t think there were. I didn’t really stick around to find out.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jeff says, holding his hand up for a high-five, which Blaine dutifully completes.

“So, where’s everybody else?” Blaine asks, glancing around the currently empty common room. By now, Wes and David have usually settled down in one of the armchairs to catch some peace and quiet before break ends and they’re back to work.

Jeff shrugs. “Things to do, places to be, I guess,” he deflects. “Speaking of, I really do have some stuff to do this break. I was just coming to check the story from its source.”

Blaine raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. “Does any of this ‘stuff’ involve actions that are either morally dubious and-slash-or illegal?”

Jeff just smiles mysteriously. “Not in this state, no.”

* * *

Blaine’s never been more grateful than he is now for his friends.

David – the crazy, intellectual son-of-a-bitch – finds him in study and hands him six pages of close-typed, well-researched Latin essay. “I know your writing style better than my own,” he explains. “Mr Picket won’t know the difference.”

Wes drops by with a  completed math exercise twenty minutes later. “You just have to copy it into your handwriting,” he says with a shrug. “Figured you could use a break from some of Dalton’s crazy workload.”

Jeff’s next, though his gift is a little less innocent and a little more contraband. Six late-excuse slips fall onto Blaine’s desk, all signed, with the date left blank. “I know a guy,” is what Jeff chooses for his explanation, before he whirls around and leaves.

Nick pulls through an hour later, at lunch, slumping down into one of the empty seats opposite Blaine. “On a scale of one to kill me now, how’s your day?” he asks, reaching over an stealing a handful of fries off Blaine’s plate.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Blaine warns. “I’m yet to be convinced that the lunch lady didn’t sprinkle cyanide over them.”

“What? Ms Plum? She’s nice as pie.” Nick shrugs, popping one into his mouth. “’Sides, I’d know if it were cyanide. It’d taste like almonds, for one.”

Blaine gives Nick a look. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that,” he states.

Another shrug. “Probably for the best.”

“So what can I do you for, Nick?” Blaine asks, leaning back in his chair. “My influence isn’t exactly the greatest at the moment, I’ll have to warn you, though.”

Nick smiles at him and then slams a small card of paper on to the table. Blaine peers at it.

“ _Penelope Pilkington_?” Blaine reads aloud. “Who’s she and why have you just given me her number?”

“A lawyer,” Nick explains. “A good one. She works at the law firm where my brother’s a paralegal.” Nick pauses, taking in Blaine’s countenance before he continues. “Let’s face it, Blaine, you need a lawyer, and I’d rather it be someone that has my family’s personal stamp of approval than someone out of the phone book.”

Blaine eyes the card warily.

“Look,” Nick continues. “Please, just call her. I have enough shit going on in my life with Jeff to be able to deal with my best friend ending up in jail, okay?”

Blaine manages a half-smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Nick replies instantly.

Blaine forks a bunch of fries. “So what was this you were saying about you and Jeff?”

Nick shrugs, but he looks far, far too smug.

* * *

Deb Soc kicking him to the curb didn’t hurt particularly. Blaine knows for a fact that he was their best debater, and once the residual anger subsided, Blaine allowed himself to get a sadistic pleasure out of the fact that winning competitions is going to have to be put on hold for them.

As for swimming – Blaine’s a lot calmer when the captain corners him and explains that they’ll lose their sponsors if they keep him on the team. Eric looks uncomfortable throughout the entire conversation, but Blaine’s not sure if it’s because of the rumours or because of the fact that Eric’s a good guy who doesn’t want to leave him behind.

Those two are expected.

The Warblers, though…

That one feels like a true betrayal.

He knows that Wes and David must have fought for him. He knows that Nick and Jeff would have screamed to keep him in.

He also knows that Thad, the other third of the council, will have fought tooth-and-nail to keep him away.

Blaine can’t really blame Thad for that.

It was all over the Dalton rumour mill last year when Thad disappeared for three weeks, returning subdued and slightly messed up. It turned out that his sister had been raped at college and then tried to commit suicide. Thad is _still_ pretty messed up, and more than a bit subdued.

So Blaine’s not going to slag Thad off for not wanting a kid accused of sexual assault leading their choir in a song about _skin-tight jeans_ and _going all the way._

It makes sense.

It doesn’t make it suck any less.

At first, Blaine hoped that they would just revoke his position as lead soloist. It turns out that they were actually going to go for the full-house. Blaine’s no longer just the ex-soloist. Blaine’s now an ex-member too.

It sucks.

What sucks even more is that Sebastian tries to call him about thirty seconds after the decision’s made and all Blaine wants to do is throw the phone across the room. So he does. The screen cracks, but it doesn’t stop ringing.

Blaine takes out the battery.


	3. a friend, confidante, character witness, or whatever

Kurt sees the article. _Of course_ Kurt sees the article.

Even if he somehow managed to miss the front page of the morning paper – bold and brazen font screaming out at him from the pale grey – and ignore the _thirty minute_ segment shown on the morning newsreel, and _magically_ deafenhimself so as not to hear it discussed on the radio on the way into school, there are nearly seventeen emails in his inbox by the time he reaches school, all from Rachel, all variations on the theme of _Kurt, have you seen this? KURT! YOU NEED TO READ THIS AND THEN CALL ME. I WANT TO TALK TO YOU!_

But Kurt does manage to glance at the morning paper, and the moment he sees it, he can feel it in his very _bones_.

This is not going to end well.

Rachel, in between huffing angrily and ranting at Kurt, agrees.

Their suspicions are confirmed three days later, when Henry Canterbury comes out and accuses the guy in the picture – eighteen year-old Blaine Anderson, a junior in high school – of sexually assaulting him.

When Rachel sees the new story, she’s so far beyond livid, that Kurt momentarily forgets his own anger in fear of her.

Rachel’s relationship with the gay community is something Kurt can’t quite wrap his head around. She has her Two Gay Dads – and each time Rachel drops them into conversation, Kurt can _swear_ he hears the capitalisation – so naturally she’s pretty inescapably tied to the LGBT community, but it’s like she moves between two extreme ends of the spectrum. At times, she’s so very fiercely _on their side_ and at others, she’s callous and uncaring.

This is an example of the former.

Watching her vent is rather amusing for Kurt once the initial fear wears off. Rachel seems caught between being angry on Henry’s behalf and being furious on Blaine’s. It’s as if she can’t decide who to side with and that pisses her off just as much as anything else.

Kurt sighs internally.

Beyond the fact that he has some semblance of honour – which, admittedly, given his track record is somewhat surprising – there’s another reason Kurt doesn’t believe in outing people. It’s not just that Kurt’s been there and knows what it’s like to be terrified of who he is. Outing people isn’t just thoughtless and reprehensible; it’s _messy._ It gets ugly, and it gets ugly fast.

When people are on the edge of losing their life as they know it, they will do _anything_ and _everything_ – say whatever they have to say – to try and stop it from slipping away from their fingers. That they’re about to be forced out of the closet doesn’t excuse their coming actions, but, to Kurt’s mind, it explains it.

Kurt doesn’t think for one second that Henry Canterbury – aged twenty-one, with an entire head of height and nearly twenty pounds of weight on the other guy – was sexually assaulted outside a gay bar in Columbus. He thinks that Henry’s scared and doing all he can to ram the closet door shut again, after having it so publically thrown open.

Kurt’s eyes fall yet again on the infamous photographs.

Right now, being Blaine Anderson must be anything but easy.

* * *

 

**_Wes:  
_ ** _Blaine, where are you?_

_[2 MISSED CALLS: WES, 9.36am; WES, 9.48am]_

**_Wes:  
_ ** _Blaine, seriously, WHERE ARE YOU???_

_[3 MISSED CALLS: DAVID, 9.49am; DAVID, 9.53am; NICK, 10.03am]_

**_Wes:  
_ ** _Call me when you get this. I’m worried._

* * *

Penelope Pilkington is, as Nick stated, a very good lawyer. She’s also a very expensive lawyer, but Blaine’s parents – thankfully – don’t fight Blaine’s decision to hire her.

“I’ll be honest with you Blaine,” she tells him one day, straightening out her skirt-suit primly. “You’ve got pretty good chances at brushing this charge off. In all honesty, the only reason things are even getting this far is because of who the supposed-victim’s father is.”

“That’s good, right?” Blaine asks, fiddling with the edge of the file Penelope handed him.

Penelope smiles. “Yeah, it’s good,” she assures him. “That’s not everything, though. If, and when, this gets to trial, Blaine, it’s going to get ugly. There’s no physical evidence of assault and those pictures in the paper don’t prove shit, so their only chance at making this stick is going to be to tear you apart on the stand. They know it, we know it – heck, the jury knows it. At the end of the day, it’s going to boil down to which one of you two boys they think is most likely to tell the truth.”

“That’s … pretty shitty,” Blaine states glumly, sinking his head into his hands.

“That’s jury trials,” Penelope shrugs. “I’m good at my job, though, and I’m going to _win_ this, so, first off, I need you to follow my instructions to the letter.”

Blaine sighs. “Okay,” he says, because, honestly? What else can he do?

* * *

 

**Wesley Montgomery  
(10:15)  
** Blaine, I’m seriously worried. You aren’t picking up your phone, and your home phone’s still un-plugged, so I’m just going to spam every single account of yours I have until I get a reply.  
 **(10:26)**  
Call me if you get this.

* * *

 

Blaine keeps Penelope’s instructions in his wallet, under the title of ‘ _Penelope Pilkington’s Guide to NOT Getting Convicted of Sexual Assault’._

Rule one, as it turns out, is something that Blaine’s more than happy to commit to. It’s simply a no-comment policy. He’s not supposed to speak to anyone about the case, or the scandal – not the press, not Wes, not David, Nick, or Jeff, not his mother and not his father – and given that Blaine doesn’t like talking about it, that’s fine by him.

Rule two is also something Blaine’s fine with.

_Stay out of trouble._ It’s mostly synonymous with _don’t do anything stupid_ and lately, Blaine’s gotten really good at that too.

The sad fact of the matter is that Blaine simply doesn’t have _time_ for trouble anymore. He’s in and out of depositions, running through testimony with his lawyer, dodging cameras and questions alike; it’s not like he ever expected this to be easy. Gradually – and by gradually, Blaine means at a fucking _glacial_ pace – Blaine’s getting used to seeing his face on the news, and getting used to the fact that those pictures of him are going to haunt him for the _rest of his life._

Keeping busy also has another advantage. It keeps his mind occupied, so it doesn’t stray – doesn’t wander – and he doesn’t have to think about the future. He just concentrates on each day as it comes, making sure he survives without either punching someone or imploding.

Because, quite frankly thinking of the future is both nerve-wracking and disheartening.

Rule three is somewhat more difficult than its compatriots.

_Never show any weakness._

It’s a survival thing. Blaine _gets_ it.

It just _sucks,_ okay?

He knows why Henry came out and said everything. He _gets_ that too. He’s been in the closet before. He _gets_ what it’s like.

It’s just…

Henry’s move was desperate. A last ditch attempt to save his own skin.

And in doing so, Henry Canterbury has single-handedly torn Blaine’s life to shreds.

And that’s just fucking selfish _._

It’s really the small things that get Blaine.

How, suddenly it’s _no big deal_ to suddenly receive nearly fifty pieces of hate mail in the post one morning. Or how his Facebook timeline is full of so many ugly comments that Blaine’s just given up on using the site altogether. Or how his Twitter following is now at some stupid number, because he’s the _shiny_ new toy for the media to play with.

How he can’t go for coffee anymore, because the baristas at his favourite coffee shop – people who have known him for nearly _three years_ – refuse to serve _people like him._

Showing no weakness sounds like a good idea, but when every little thing wears away at him just a little bit more, it’s nigh impossible.

And then, when he’s at his lowest point, Blaine meets Kurt.

It involves him breaking all three of Penelope’s rules and it’s quite possibly the best thing to happen to him in a long time.

* * *

**_Unknown Number:_ **   
_Did you block my number, Blaine? Seriously? What are you? Five fucking years old? God, Blaine, it was a joke. What the fuck happened to your sense of humour!?  
I just. Please, just call me back. I can explain._

* * *

After the Warblers barely scrape past sectionals with a tie with another show choir – the New Directions from William McKinley High in Lima – Trent corners him in the library and drops a none-too-subtle hint that Blaine’s membership might be back on the table if he can dish the dirt on the group.

It’s around about then that rule two goes out the window.

Lima is about a two hour drive away, and McKinley finishes up a whole hour before Dalton – one of the unfortunate downsides of private school – but, _fuck it,_ Blaine’s getting expelled anyway, so he digs through his desk draw and pulls out his forged late excuse slips, scribbling in the day’s date. He chucks on some of the casual clothes he has hanging in his closet, grabs his keys and makes the drive down to Lima, all the while praying that public school kids are as illiterate as Dalton leads its students to believe and don’t actually read the newspaper.

As it turns out, Blaine is a crap spy.

The New Directions call him out almost the first moment they spot him loitering in the doorway of the auditorium. A tiny girl, who just seconds ago was belting out a power ballad, stops halfway through her solo to scream at him. The rest of the members just sort of stare at him – well, not all of them, as a dark-haired girl in a cheerleading outfit take the time to make a vaguely insulting quip about his height – until, out of the crowd, a dark bruise marring his otherwise perfect complexion, steps _Kurt._

Kurt’s _hot._ He’s all high-cheekbones and perfectly-styled, chestnut hair – tight jeans and killer legs – and there’s a glinting sharpness to his eyes which simply _fascinates_ Blaine.

Of course, he doesn’t know Kurt’s name right then, but Kurt knows his, as is proven when he states dryly, “Blaine Anderson. Now _this_ is a surprise.”

Blaine feels his mouth go dry.

“Kurt,” the tiny girl starts, whirling around to face the other boy. “I really don’t think—”

“Rachel,” Kurt says flatly, but his voice comes out forceful, like it’s a direct challenge and they both know it. “I’ll handle this.”

Their eyes meet and remain on each other for a few seconds. Blaine can see the almost imperceptible changes in facial expressions between the two of them and knows that they’re having a hurried and silent argument.

Kurt wins.

“Fine,” Rachel relents, drawing her eyes away from Kurt. “But remember Jesse.”

“As if I could forget.” Kurt rolls his eyes good-naturedly – Blaine _thinks_ it’s good-naturedly – and takes hold of Blaine’s arm, before dragging him out of the auditorium. Blaine lets himself be tugged away, still somewhat dazed.

* * *

 

**_Random Twitter User_ ** _(@RTWU1)  
@BlaineWarbler People like you make me sick._

**_Random Twitter User 2_ ** _(@RTWU2)  
@BlaineWarbler Just go kill yourself. Do us all a favour._

**_Random Twitter User 3_ ** _(@RTWU3)  
@BlaineWarbler You deserve to burn in hell._

* * *

 

Kurt’s idea of handling things turns out to be buying him a cup of crappy cafeteria decaf and sitting him down on the bleachers for a _chat._

“If it helps,” Kurt says softly from above his coffee, “Rachel and I are probably the only members of the New Directions who actually recognised you.”

“That—” Blaine pauses, unsure. “That actually does help. Thanks.”

Kurt shrugs. “We’re not exactly the type to watch the news.” He pauses. “Well, maybe Quinn too,” he concedes, “but she’s kind of dealing with some shit right now, so.” He shrugs again.

They fall into an uncomfortable silence, and Blaine takes the time to raise his coffee cup to his mouth and take a tentative sip. God, this stuff is _vile._

“So,” Blaine says awkwardly, placing the coffee cup down on the bleachers beside him. “Are you going to beat me up for spying, or..?” he trails off when Kurt starts laughing.

“I’m not going to beat you up, God,” Kurt says, chuckles still reverberating through his entire torso. “It’s the black-eye, isn’t it? Noah said it made me look like a badass.” He shakes his head, smiling at Blaine.

He’s kind of cute when he smiles.

The fact that Kurt stops laughing and _stares_ at Blaine tells him that he accidentally said that last bit out loud.

“Thank you,” Kurt says, voice small. “No one’s really said that about me before.”

Blaine shrugs, deliberately not meeting Kurt’s eyes. “They should.”

Kurt shrugs, then leans back against the cold metal of the bleachers. “So,” he starts, making the one word seem like a statement all on its own.

“So,” Blaine repeats.

“What brings you to our neck of the woods, Blaine?” Kurt asks, eyes staring up at the overcast sky. “I’m guessing it wasn’t really about spying on our show choir, and I can’t imagine it was you wanting to scout out the school, because honestly? McKinley is many things, but a lovely, accepting high school is not one of them.”

“What makes you think I wasn’t there to spy?” Blaine questions.

Kurt gives him a _look._ “If you were,” he states, “then you’re really going to have to up your game. As far as attempts at show choir espionage go, this doesn’t even rate a two on the threat scale.”

“Out of ten?” Blaine asks, cradling his coffee cup.

Kurt snorts. “Out of a _hundred,_ ” he corrects. He pauses, his entire face softening. “So, that leads me to believe that this maybe has less to do with spying and more to do with…” Kurt trails off and Blaine recognises that he’s looking for a polite way to reference the clusterfuck that is his life right now. “…Everything else,” Kurt completes eventually.

It’s the most tactful way Blaine’s heard to refer to it, beating Jeff’s _The Consequences of Blaine’s Stupidity_ by a wide margin.

Everything else.

Blaine kind of likes that.

“Huh,” is what Blaine eventually settles on saying. “I really _am_ a terrible spy.”

Kurt makes a face like _hey, what can you do,_ and smiles at Blaine. “It was kind of adorable,” he comments.

They lapse once more into a tense silence and Kurt turns his eyes to the sky. There’s a pensive quality to Kurt’s gaze, like he can see the answers to every question he has up there in the overcast heavens. Blaine follows Kurt’s direction of sight, right up to the dreary cloud cover, and the faint streaks of sunlight pushing through.

“I believed you, you know,” Kurt admits quietly, smoothly slicing through the silence.

Blaine tears his eyes away from the sky to look straight at Kurt as he speaks.

“You know,” Kurt goes on. “That you’re innocent.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out the way it does – coarse and uncaring – but the concern is a real one. People that Blaine’s known for years have turned their backs on him without so much as a second thought. So, why the hell does a complete stranger have more faith in him than his parents?

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t seem fair.

Kurt meets Blaine’s gaze and _there._ There’s the _sharpness_ Blaine saw earlier – the piercing, intelligent quality that holds so much promise, so much _thought,_ that Blaine’s desperate to figure out the mind behind it.

Kurt’s the one who looks away.

“It just didn’t make much sense, really, from a pragmatic point of view,” Kurt says. “I mean, here we have this _hunk_ of a guy and I’m supposed to believe that he – all one hundred and seventy pounds of him – couldn’t have fended off the sloppy advances of a no-doubt sloshed to high hell _midget_ eighteen year old?”

As soon as the words are out of Kurt’s mouth, he freezes, like _oh shit, that was actually kind of offensive._ Blaine wants to laugh at it.

So he does.

“I resent that,” he breathes between laughs, feeling so fucking _light._ “I ama perfectly _average_ height for my age.”

Kurt raises his eyebrows, all, _who the hell are you trying to kid?_

“For what? A hobbit?” he snarks lightly.

Blaine snorts. “You think I haven’t heard that one before?” he asks. “It’s not like I had a growth spurt and then stopped growing. I’ve been short my _entire_ life.” He stops suddenly and sighs almost wistfully. “I kind of miss it.”

Kurt stares at him strangely. “I hate to break this to you, Blaine, but you’re _still_ short.”

Blaine stops short. He doesn’t know how to vocalise this, but back when he was just _short,_ things were easier. Now, he’s _gay,_ and a _predator,_ and a _liar,_ and a _freak._ Midget just seems … kinder, almost.

He struggles through his explanation and watches as, with each word, Kurt’s brows knit closer and closer together.

“You know,” Kurt says when he’s done, “the French have a proverb. _C’est dans le besoin qu’on reconnait ses vrais amis._ It means that you only really find out who your real friends are when you’re going through shit – and that’s not a literal translation, so don’t use it in an essay or whatever – but I’m guessing right now, you have a pretty clear idea of who you can count on in a crisis and who’s going to leave you high and dry.”

Blaine nods minutely.

Kurt smiles sadly. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.” His eyes linger on Blaine’s face for a few more moments, the eye-contact between them oddly intimate, before he withdraws and takes a sip of his coffee. Immediately, his face contorts into something resembling repulsion.

“God, this stuff is awful,” he exclaims, upending his cup and tipping his cup over the bleachers. “And I really should get back to rehearsals.”

Kurt stands, and then pauses, and then picks up his empty coffee cup, rooting in his pockets for a pen. He scrawls his number on the polystyrene – his handwriting gloriously elegant – and hands the empty cup to Blaine.

Blaine accepts it dumbly.

“Speaking from experience,” Kurt says softly, “it never hurts to have a few more of those elusive true friends. Things are going to get worse before they get better, Blaine. Even I can see that. Just don’t… Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Even if you ask me. And, God, I know this must be pretty much the _last_ thing you want to hear from some complete stranger, but I’m _there,_ okay. If you need me. As a friend, a confidante, a character witness, or _whatever_. I’m _there._ ”

Blaine doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

Kurt looks at him, sad eyes crinkling around the edges, before he shakes his head and slides away.

Blaine can’t help but feel like he should be chasing after him.

* * *

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _Sorry, Wes. I’m safe. Just didn’t feel like school today._

**_Wes:  
_ ** _Text a guy, next time, okay? I was freaking out._

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _No offence, Wes, but you’re pretty much always freaking out about something._

**_Wes:  
_ ** _No jokes, Blaine. Call me next time. I had no idea where you were._

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _OK. Night, Wes. See you tomorrow._

**_Wes:  
_ ** _Goodnight, Blaine._

* * *

It’s two days later when Blaine finally uses that number. He’s already got it saved on his phone under _Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever_ and he’s been debating whether or not to send anything its way. Kurt seems nice enough, but this could all just be a front. He knows how much the press have been clamouring for some sort of end to the radio silence he’s been giving them, but…

But Blaine could really, really use a friend, confidante, character witness, or whatever right now.

He keeps it simple.

**_Blaine:_ ** _  
They’re expelling me from school. –Blaine_

And _goodbye,_ rule one. In fact, goodbye rule three too. Two for one.

Kurt’s reply comes instantly.

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
Blaine? What? Why? –Kurt_

Blaine smiles more than just a tiny bit at the fact that Kurt properly capitalises his texts too.

**_Blaine:_**  
Dalton – that’s my school, BTW – has a pretty strict honour code. Apparently having racy photos published in the papers violates it. Who woulda figured?

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
That… sucks, actually._

**_Blaine:_ ** _  
Tell me something I don’t know. It’s such utter shit as well, because I know for a fact that one of the seniors got done for public sex with his girlfriend over the summer and he’s still enjoying all the privileges associated with Dalton’s esteemed student body._

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
That really, really sucks. I would tell you to come to McKinley, but, well, you’re currently speaking to the only thing that place has going for it._

**_Blaine:_ ** _  
Trust me, if I thought it was an option, I would go for it too._

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
Wait a second. Dalton? As in the Dalton Academy Warblers? So you WERE a spy. You dirty dog! :P_

**_Blaine:_ ** _  
Ah. Yes. Well, if it’s any consolation, the Warblers and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now. They kicked me off the day after I got arrested._

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
Does that make you a rogue agent, then? You’ll have to forgive my lack of spy-savvy. I’m more of a fashion guy._

**_Blaine:_ ** _  
Really? You read Vogue? If so, what did you think of the Marion Cotillard cover?_

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
Of course I read Vogue, Blaine. I’m a self-respecting, fashion-obsessed gay man, after all. And that Marion Cotillard cover – genius. Pure genius._

**_Blaine:_ ** _  
It’s like you read my mind. Best cover of 2010. Seriously._

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
Really? Your use of no other punctuation marks other than full-stops says otherwise._

**_Blaine:_**  
Fine. It’s like you read my mind! Best cover of 2010! Seriously! :DDDDDD  
Are you happy? I seem like a sorority girl or something now.

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
I happen to think you’d make a charming sorority girl. And here, this is where, if I were truly lecherous, I’d make a comment about wet t-shirt contests._

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _I hate you._

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
Now Blaine, don’t go about making rash judgements. I could be your soul mate for all you know._

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _Unlikely, but I’ll keep you posted on that._

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_**  
And to think I’d gotten my hopes up. However will I cope?  
Seriously, though, my friends were pissed enough that I let you go without some kind of retribution for spying. I do not need the drama associated with dating a Dalton kid as well.

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _There’s also my impending sexual assault charges._

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
That too, but to be honest, I’m more worried about Rachel’s reaction._

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _That’s either a shocking display of your faith in me, or a shocking display of your lack of faith in your friend._

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
Oh, Blaine. Your naivety is adorable. Unfortunately, the ND have bad experiences with show choir espionage._

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _Now I’m curious._

**_Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:_ ** _  
In that case, I suppose I can fill you in. Are you ready for a tale of seduction, forbidden love and eggs?_

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _If that isn’t a ringing endorsement, I don’t know what is._

Kurt tells the story of a steady stream of texts, and Blaine takes great pleasure in reading about someone else’s drama-filled life. Kurt’s depiction of the tale isn’t without a great deal of snark, not all of it PC, but all of it enough to break through the chronic weariness that has been wearing Blaine down recently and make him smile.

His favourite line has to be Kurt’s brilliant description of this Jesse guy’s hair. _We’re talking L’Oréal, beautiful conditioner commercial locks here, Blaine. I spent half of our dance rehearsals waiting for him to shake it out and tell me I was worth it._

It’s then that it hits Blaine – he’s missed this. He’s missed the casual banter he had taken for granted with his friends. He’s missed being able to say whatever he likes over text without worrying about it being dissected and used against him.

It’s easy with Kurt. Easy to forget.

Blaine’s not entirely sure that’s a good thing.

* * *

**_A Friend:  
_ ** _Just remember, Blaine: I did not have sexual relations with that (wo)man. –Kurt_


	4. in case of emergencies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really like this chapter and will probably rewrite it later at five-thirty in the morning or something.

It’s dark when Blaine traipses up to his bedroom. Dinner that evening was both a rare and awkward affair, given that both his parents were actually present for it. They ate in silence, punctuating the warmth of the quiet with icy looks across the table and curt, unfeeling demands for the salt and pepper.

Blaine flicks on his bedside lamp, throwing the area around his bed into a dim half-light. Resting on the floor is a copy of _Pride and Prejudice,_ an old, beaten-up thing that Blaine thinks he may have borrowed from his old school’s library and simply forgotten to give back in.

As Blaine thumbs open the book, a tiny note falls out onto his lap. He vaguely remembers putting it there, thinking that it would be safe tucked between the pages of his favourite book.

Now, Blaine stares numbly at the written phone number on the scrap of paper in front of him. There’s a note underneath it, scribbled in chicken-scratch handwriting, which reads, _IN CASE OF EMERGENCIES._

It’s an Anderson thing, Blaine supposes, to hurriedly write notes in messy block capitals. His father does it, his mother does it, he does it…

Cooper does it.

The sibling dynamic between Cooper and Blaine has always been complicated. There’s really no other way to describe the tangle of different interactions and patterns that he and Cooper fall into – no other way to accurately illustrate the multiple layers of emotion that rush through Blaine just at the slightest mention of his brother’s name.

Cooper Anderson: the son who ran away from home. Cooper Anderson: the boy whose parents told him every day of his life to _stop this nonsense_ because he would _never make it,_ and kept telling him, right up _until he did_. Cooper Anderson: the successful Hollywood actor. Cooper Anderson: the older brother who _left Blaine behind._

Because, despite all of the resentment and the inadequacy Blaine feels when faced with Cooper’s success, that’s the one thing that sticks to him the most.

It’s the one thing Blaine can never, ever forgive Cooper for.

_He left Blaine behind._

Cooper knew. Cooper _always_ knows. Cooper knew and he still left.

It stings of betrayal even after all that Cooper has done for Blaine. Even after Cooper stormed off a movie-set mid-shoot to rush to the side of Blaine’s hospital bed. Even after Cooper stared down their father, venom in his eyes, and told him to _back the fuck off._ Even after Cooper handed Blaine a brochure for Dalton Academy – the only school in Ohio with a zero-tolerance policy that was strictly enforced – and told him that it was his new school starting next week. Even after Cooper told the press he was an only child, because Blaine _asked him to._

Even after everything, Blaine can’t make himself forgive the fact that Cooper left him behind in _that house._

And Blaine can’t forgive that even after _that,_ he still can’t let go of Cooper as his older brother.

Right now, Cooper’s spending nine months in the Gambia doing some soul searching and charity work. Cooper probably has no idea what’s going on back home – what’s going on with Blaine – and Blaine doesn’t have it in him to change the status quo.

Once more, Blaine looks down at the number on the piece of paper.

_IN CASE OF EMERGENCIES._

It’s the number for a satellite phone – what is currently Cooper’s only way of contacting the Western world.

_IN CASE OF EMERGENCIES._

Blaine hates how, even now, he still has this urge to run to Cooper. Because Cooper would get it. Cooper knows what it’s like to feel trapped and like you have just stopped being able to push on through everything – to know that you can keep fighting, but at the same time, know that you really _can’t._

Cooper always knows.

_IN CASE OF EMERGENCIES._

Blaine folds the piece of paper in half and tucks it within the pages of his battered copy of _Pride and Prejudice,_ then turns out the light and drops into a restless sleep.

* * *

 

_Blaine has come to a conclusion: Sebastian is the worst influence ever._

_That’s what he tells himself at least as he downs his third shot of the night. Blaine’s pretty buzzed by now – his thought processes are slow and sluggish, his movements sloppy and inelegant – but he’s having fun and that’s something at least._

_Blaine glances across the dance floor, to where Sebastian is shaking his **everything** in a manner that should definitely be illegal. Sebastian’s eyes flicker up and his gaze catches on Blaine’s, irises dark and intense in the lighting of the club._

_Come hither, they say._

_Blaine doesn’t obey the silent command._

_Sebastian Smythe is like adrenaline and he knows it. Fleeting, intense and potentially fatal in too high a dose. He loves ‘em and leaves ‘em, changing lovers more regularly than an average person changes socks._

_Sebastian’s made no secret of the fact that he would do Blaine – ‘fuck him into the mattress and leave him begging for more’ were his exact words, to be precise – but Blaine’s determined to keep Sebastian at an arm’s length, if only for nothing more than the preservation of their friendship. Blaine knows that if he crosses that line, then either he or Sebastian will doubtlessly fuck it up._

_So, yeah, there may be attraction there on Sebastian’s part, but Blaine’s content ignoring it in its entirety._

_“Hello handsome,” a voice comes from Blaine’s side._

_Blaine spins his head around, coming face-to-face with a guy, who’s sliding a drink across the bar-top to him. There’s something familiar about this guy and Blaine knows he should recognise him, but—_

_Blaine glances across the bar to Sebastian, who – never one to be kept down by rejection – has already moved on to a criminally good-looking guy._

_Blaine turns back to the guy hitting on him. He accepts the drink. “Thanks,” he says._

_“I’m Henry,” Henry introduces himself smoothly._

_“Blaine.” Blaine takes a sip from the drink. It’s good. A bit fruity, but good._

_Henry leans in, close to Blaine’s face, his breath brushing against Blaine’s jawline. “Want to get out of here?” he practically rasps._

_Another glance to Sebastian and his latest pick of the day, tongues in mouths, bodies grinding close, sweat clinging to shirts—_

_“Yeah.”_

* * *

Blaine gets offered a plea deal.

It’s surprisingly generous, the DA’s office tell him. Minimum Security for eight months is _lenient._ Blaine will be out in no time, and able to graduate high school afterwards. After that, the media scrutiny should die down with shocking rapidity, and then he can go off to college and put this entire chapter of his life behind him.

Blaine’s sorely tempted to take it.

Throughout his life, Blaine’s always had a pathological need to be validated by those around him. He always has something to prove – he’s gay, _Dad,_ so stop trying to pretend, or he’s somehow _worthy_ of Dalton, or he’s not _broken_ , so stop treating him like he is – always has someone to prove wrong.

Blaine’s still like that. He’s just…

Tired.

Tired of fighting a war he can’t win. Tired of his family. Tired of his friends. Tired of himself.

Taking the plea deal would be the easy way out.  A signature on a piece of paper, eight months of his life, and then the rest of it free.

Easy.

Penelope says that she’ll agree with whatever he eventually decides. They can win this, she tells him, but if he doesn’t want to fight anymore there’s not much point. He should sleep on it.

He does one better. He calls Kurt.

“ _Okay, let me get this straight,”_ Kurt says after Blaine’s done explaining. “ _You’ve been offered a plea deal by the DA’s office, which you’re thinking about taking. It’s pleading guilty to the crime, eight months in a minimum security prison and a permanent mark on your criminal record. Serve the time, move on with your life, right?”_

“Right,” Blaine agrees.

“ _Blaine, I mean this in the nicest way possible,”_ Kurt’s voice comes down the phone, slow and level, _“but what the fuck are you even thinking?”_

Blaine chokes on his own spit. “What?”

“ _It’s not just putting it behind you and moving on with your life,”_ Kurt tells him bluntly. “ _It’s a criminal record – you’ll be forever known in the American legal system as a sex offender, Blaine. You signing this deal is like admitting you were guilty all along. And you didn’t do it, right?”_

“Of course I didn’t—”

“ _Then why the fuck are you letting yourself be pressured into pleading guilty for a crime you didn’t commit?”_ Kurt demands. His voice is raising in volume, his tone getting more and more tinged with anger. “ _That’s bullshit, Blaine, and you know it.”_

Blaine sighs. He throws himself back on his bed, throwing his eyes up to the ceiling. “It’s not about that, Kurt,” he protests softly.

“ _Then what is it about, Blaine?”_ Kurt asks sharply.

“It’d just be easier is all,” Blaine explains. “This has already ruined my life. I guess I just want this whole thing to end.”

There’s a strangled sound of frustration on the other end of the phone call before Kurt grinds out, “ _I’m trying really, really hard not to be pissed off with you, Blaine, but you make it damn hard.”_ Kurt pauses. _“When you met me, I had a black eye, didn’t I?”_

Blaine nods to himself. “Yeah, I remember.”

_“Why do you think I had a black eye, Blaine?”_

Blaine opens his mouth to say something and then snaps it shut.

“ _I had a black eye because someone at school – a beefy jock on the football team to be precise – took issue with the fact I was gay and decided to teach me a lesson,”_ Kurt says. _“There was this whole load of other crap too, and it sucked, but you know what? I held my head high and I pushed through it. Because the only thing more important to me than the fact that I’m not wrong or sick or twisted, is **never, ever letting them win**.”_

“It’s not just about that, Kurt,” Blaine objects, but it’s feeble and they both know it.

“ _You once told me you regretted leaving your old school after getting **hospitalised** because it made you feel like you were running away,” _Kurt says. “ _So what do you think accepting this plea bargain is?”_

Blaine doesn’t answer.

“ _Just… Just think about it, Blaine. Call me back when you’re thinking straight.”_

Kurt doesn’t wait for Blaine to answer before he hangs up.

* * *

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _Wes, I need your help._

**_Wes:  
_ ** _I’ll be around in a few._

* * *

Wes is far calmer than Kurt when it comes to the plea deal issue, but he’s just as opinionated. It’s all very Wes, how he reacts to the news: calm, analytical, and slightly judgemental.

When Blaine’s done explaining the ins and outs of the situation, Wes runs a hand through his hair, frowning lightly.

“ _Personally,_ ” Wes says, putting a great deal of emphasis onto that word. “ _Personally,_ I wouldn’t take the deal.”

Blaine sighs. “What would _you_ do _,_ then, Wes?” he asks, tiredly.

Wes shrugs. “Let it go to court,” he states. “Get myself a not-guilty verdict. Then, I’d sue everyone else into the _ground_ for damages.”

Blaine blinks. “What? Why?”

“Because, _Blaine,_ ” Wes explains, voice slightly strained and tinged with frustration, “Henry Canterbury has _ruined_ your life. And I’m not just talking in the melodramatic, teenage overreaction sense; I’m talking full-on, one-hundred per cent torn to pieces here. With this on your record, and your expulsion from your last school, you’re not going to be getting into any of the top universities and you know it. There’s not a person in the country who doesn’t look at your face and see ‘sexual predator’, now, and that sort of recognition _haunts_ you, Blaine.”

Wes takes a deep breath, dropping his shoulders and shaking his head. “I don’t really understand why you’re even considering taking the deal, Blaine,” he sighs. “We both know that it shouldn’t even be seen as a viable option for you.”

Wes’ eyes bore into Blaine’s face, and it’s not long before Blaine breaks eye contact. “I just don’t think I can do this anymore,” he says.

Wes shakes his head again. “Blaine,” he says. “I know you. You can.”

Blaine swallows his words.

_No,_ he thinks, _I really can’t._

* * *

It’s not the first time in these past few months that Blaine’s felt lost. He feels like he’s stuck in his own freefall, constantly at terminal velocity, out of control and just waiting for the sickening crunch when he finally hits the ground.

Unbidden, his eyes stray to his copy of _Pride and Prejudice,_ carefully placed on the nightstand.

Cooper would know what to do.

He _can’t,_ though. He _can’t_ call that number. He doesn’t _need_ Cooper.

He misses him, though.

It’s a treacherous thought that cuts through his confusion. He misses his older brother.

_IN CASE OF EMERGENCIES._

Cooper _always_ knows.

Blaine digs through an old trunk of things he keeps under his bed until he finds an old football jersey that Cooper used to love. He slips it on over his pyjamas and cries himself to sleep.

* * *

_“Hey Blaine. You’re not picking up my calls and I guess that’s okay. You need to think. I just really need to say this. It’s… It’s okay to be scared, Blaine. I think that I would be too. It’s okay to think that you can’t go on. It’s okay to feel like you’re on an edge, teetering dangerously close to oblivion. It’s okay, Blaine, and so will you be._

_“I guess what I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t feel trapped in your own emotions. I said I was there for you and though, at the time it was just me trying to be a good person, it’s more selfish on my part now. You’re… God, you’re so much more than just a friend to me, Blaine. I don’t ever want to not be there for you._

_“I guess that was the real reason that I didn’t want you to take the deal. Because it would **kill** me if I had to lose you like that._

_“So, all my rambling aside, Blaine, call me back.”_

* * *

Kurt shouldn’t feel like this.

Blaine’s… Blaine’s a _friend._ Kurt is Blaine’s _friend._

Both of them have enough baggage that this shouldn’t be something Kurt’s even considering for several months yet, but—

Kurt’s not one for denial.

He’s been there, done that to death, even has a fucking _T-shirt._ He’s _done_ with denying his feelings – done with trying to quash down who he is into some _shell_ suitable for public consumption. He’s Kurt Hummel, and he’s kind of, sort of in love with Blaine Anderson, and _screw it all_ if he cares what anyone else thinks.

Kurt’s not going to lie. When he first met Blaine, all Kurt could think was that maybe, just maybe, this could be how he finally puts everything that happened previously behind him. How he pushed himself past the nightmare of _Karofsky,_ how he put the horror of _Azimio_ and _Strando_ behind him.

Helping Blaine was supposed to be therapeutic.

It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

Because it took all of six seconds for Kurt to realise that Blaine deserves so much more than to be someone’s pet project.

Because it took all of two weeks for Kurt to realise that Blaine was going to become so much more than just a friend for him.

Because it took all of two days for Kurt to realise that he was falling for Blaine Anderson after that, and another day for Kurt to realise that he didn’t want to stop.

Because it took all of one phone call for Kurt to screw it all up.

Kurt stares down at the his phone screen, down at the one photo he has of Blaine. It’s from one of the few times that they’ve been able to meet in person, when he and Blaine were dancing to Lady Gaga and singing along obnoxiously loudly in his room. Blaine’s face is split by an ear-to-ear grin, and he looks relaxed, at ease, and his hazel eyes glint out from the screen into Kurt’s own steady gaze.

He stares at Blaine’s face and waits for Blaine to call him back.

* * *

Blaine stares down at his phone, and at the number staring back at him.

He can do this.

It’s okay to feel like he can’t, because he knows he can. He can do this.

He hits dial.

“ _Blaine?”_

Blaine takes a deep breath. “Hey, Penelope,” he says.

He hears her sigh on the other end of the line, before asking if he’s made his decision. Blaine swallows his fear.

He’s falling. Terminal velocity.

But he doesn’t need to hit the ground with a sickening crunch.

And so Blaine thinks of his safety net, of all of his parachutes – Cooper, Wes, Nick, Jeff, David, _Kurt_ – and then tells Penelope Pilkington where exactly he thinks the DA’s office can shove their deal.

He can practically _hear_ Penelope’s grin on the other end of the line.


	5. the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure I should give you guys a bit of explanation to go with this chapter. It’s a long one ( ~~I think~~ ) and it deals with the wrapping up of everything. My original plan was to just skip all of the legal proceedings and just have the case dropped, but then I realised that that would probably feel kind of cheap and all. Then, I thought about writing the court case and it was going to be this massive hoo-ha with testimonies and the prosecution nearly destroying Blaine on the stand, but that just seemed too… slapstick, I guess? Like the prosecution people were just caricatures, dumb enough to try and misinterpret all these events to make Blaine the bad guy. Then, it struck me that I didn’t need to do this. Because the prosecution here aren’t going to be dumb. So, here you go: how it all ends, the final edition.

Samuel Gladys has two main thoughts when he sees the newspaper article declaring that the ‘encounter’ between Henry Canterbury and his jail-bait drunken misadventure wasn’t consensual: first that he wished Canterbury Jr good luck trying to prove that in a court of law, and second that he pitied the poor sucker who had to try and make those charges stick.

Then he gets the call telling him it’s his case.

And he briefly considers throwing himself off a bridge to get out of it.

The further into the case files he gets, the more that Samuel realises that this is all pretty futile. The physical evidence of assault is minimal, those pictures in the paper don’t prove _jack shit_ , and let’s ask ourselves for one minute now what kill-rip-tear-burn-the-gays Marcus Canterbury’s son was doing at a gay bar in Ohio, anyway?On top of all that there’s the fact that Blaine Anderson – the accused – is a fucking angel on earth. Samuel has to try and prove beyond a reasonable doubt that a kind, conscientious, show-tunes-loving, helps-old-ladies-cross-streets fucking _honour student_ somehow had it in his tiny, twig-like frame to corner and assault a twenty-something year old man, whilst probably drunk enough he couldn’t _walk,_ let alone prey on unsuspecting men of dubious heterosexuality.

But Samuel is good at his job.

So, little by little, bit by bit, he builds his case.

It’s the type of case that’s ridiculously frustrating to push past each milestone with. For every student at Dalton – Anderson’s school – that swears up and down that the kid is unstable, messed-up and one-hundred per cent capable of sexual assault, there are nearly fifteen who put their hands on their hearts and say the opposite.

Samuel likes to think that he’s getting a pretty good idea of the type of person that Blaine Anderson is.

And then, the turning point in the case comes around.

It’s late on a Thursday night and he has one of the wannabe big-shots in his team trawling through the plethora of records they have on Blaine Anderson when they spot it. There, out in the open – and he has no idea how on earth they missed this the first time around – is a note on his permanent record. Anderson didn’t leave his old high school – North Westerville High – mid-year willingly. He was expelled.

For a ‘violent altercation outside a school dance’ nonetheless.

There’s a gap of a few months between his expulsion and his enrolment and Samuel guesses that that period was probably filled with Anderson’s father striving to get the kid accepted into Dalton with an expulsion on his record.

Now that they know where and how to look, a lot of other stuff begins to come into play. Samuel’s still waiting on the incident report from his contact down at the police station – and yes, it’s severe enough that there _is_ an incident report – but they’ve found a whole raft of things that don’t just crack at Anderson’s perfect exterior, they destroy it.

He saw a therapist for his first two terms at Dalton – _unstable._

He started boxing and kept at it for a year after that – _strong._

Halfway through his first week at Dalton, his roommate requested a transfer to a different room because Anderson broke his nose – _violent._

For the first time since he started on the case, Samuel actually thinks that they might be able to nail Anderson.

And then the next call comes in.

It’s not from Samuel’s boss; it’s from Samuel’s boss’s boss’s boss. Michael Smythe, the State’s Attorney – pretty much the one guy who can tell a bunch of too-smart-for-their-own-good lawyers what to do and get away with it.

And he tells them to make a deal.

Samuel’s first reaction is even more frustration – and he might need to get his blood pressure checked at the end of this; there’s no way any of this mess can be good for his health – because he was _just_ starting to make headway in the case. His second is one of rampant curiosity.

Why should they deal? There’s only really one reason why people ever want to strike deals, and that’s because the court case is going to be ugly and expensive, so they want to reach an agreement without letting something go to court.

He finds the answer on Twitter.

**_Sebastian Smythe_ ** _(@SebbieDoesDallas)  
Thanks for a fun night out  @BlaineWarbler – though I think you had more fun than I did: [link]_

Ignoring the fact that the Twitter handle ‘@SebbieDoesDallas’ is really rather distasteful, Samuel can read between the lines. Sebastian Smythe – his boss’s boss’s boss’s son – was there at the club on the night. And he’s likely to be a key witness in the case.

For once, keeping a case out of the courts isn’t about money. It’s about family.

Samuel Gladys thinks of his wife and his barely past infanthood son, and realises that he can get behind that. It’s not really how the law works, or how it should work, but Samuel isn’t going to go against his boss’s boss’s boss just so he can drag the guy’s kid through the mud in court.

So, he settles down and drafts a plea deal.

Three days later, the plea deal gets shoved back down his throat, and Samuel wishes he could say that he’s surprised.

Samuel sighs and re-opens his case file.

A few more days pass and his buddy down at the police station comes through with the incident report. He hands it over with a shake of his head. “You don’t want to know what I had to go through in order to get that,” Charlie states, shaking his head.

“I’ll buy you a bottle of Tequila,” Samuel tells him easily, accepting the file.             

“You’ll buy me a _crate_ ,” Charlie corrects. “I don’t know what shit is going on that you need that file, Sam, but I don’t want any more part of it.”

Samuel whistles, leaning back in his chair. “That bad, huh?” he asks.

“You know how we used to joke about being so tangled in red-tape, it would have been more efficient just to use paper?” Charlie asks. “That thing was buried. _Deliberately._ ”

“You read it?” Samuel questions, mostly out of curiosity.

Charlie snorts, turning to leave. “Fuck no,” he declares. “I’m staying out of whatever mess you’re involved in now.”

Samuel shrugs and Charlie shakes his head once more, like he can’t believe what he does for their friendship, before he leaves. Lips pursed, Samuel looks down at the incident report.

What could a fight outside a high school dance be doing so fiercely buried? Resisting the urge to stop digging has always been a weak point of Samuel’s, so he flips it open and starts to read.

* * *

 

**_TWO OHIOAN TEENAGERS BEATEN TO A PULP OUTSIDE SCHOOL DANCE_ **

_On Friday 17 th February, two students at North Westerville High School were cornered outside a school dance and beaten to the point of near death. According to their classmates, the two teenagers were likely singled out because of the fact that they had chosen to go to the dance together and are both openly gay. The two students were admitted to hospital at 9:30 pm on the night and have yet to wake. Dr Mathias of St Ann’s Hospital told the press that they are both stable, but it remains to be seen if either of them will awake any time soon._

_Representatives of North Westerville High School refused to comment on the events…_

_( read more)_

* * *

The names of any of the kids involved are never once mentioned in the report, but Samuel still manages to get the general gist. Two students at Westerville High School – both barely fourteen at the time – got the shit beaten out of them outside a school dance by a group of older students with baseball bats.

A violent altercation outside a school dance.

Samuel feels like he’s going to be sick.

They offered a plea deal to this sick fuck. They offered him _eight fucking months_ in _minimum security._ They were prepared to let him go with a slap on the wrist. Blaine Anderson most definitely had it in him to corner a guy outside a club and sexually assault him, because guess the fuck what? He’s done it—

Blaine Devon Anderson would have been fourteen at the time of the ‘violent altercation outside a school dance’.

The attackers were older.

_Students A and B both spent long periods of time in hospital, recovering from extensive injuries, in Student A’s case, including a leg, a punctured lung, and a shattered hand – caused after his attackers stamped down on his hand to prevent him from calling 911._

There’s a gap in Anderson’s school records between his expulsion and his enrolment at Dalton Academy.

_Blaine Anderson? Yeah, I shared a room with him a while back. He didn’t really board at Dalton for long though. His parents pulled him out of boarding when he broke my nose and I requested to be moved to a different room._

Blaine Anderson punched his roomie in the nose and all the kid did was request to be moved to a different room.

_Blaine and I ran the boxing club together for a while. He was kind of intense about it, but then he got involved with the Warblers and didn’t really have enough time to run it with me. He still drops by sometimes, I guess, when things all get a bit too much._

He started boxing – was _obsessive_ about it.

_Blaine’s not that sort of guy, Mr Gladys. Anyone at Dalton can tell you as much. So you’ll forgive me if I cry ‘scapegoat’ here._

Kind. Conscientious. Saw a therapist. Started Boxing. Well-liked. Honour student.

Samuel Gladys thinks of his tiny, precious son, and this time, is actually sick.

He cleans himself up and stares his face down in the bathroom mirror. Sometimes he wonders how he can keep doing this, following through on cases to the point where he almost throws innocents under the bus to keep his job.

Because all those months ago, when Samuel started work on the case, he never once thought for a second of following through on the fact that Blaine Anderson could be innocent. He feels used, like a weapon, just given coordinates and told to fire, and feels stupid, because he’s smart – Harvard law school levels of smart – and he let himself be so convinced of this fact that he missed the simplest explanation for why Blaine Anderson would be hard to convict.

Because out of all of this, there’s really only one victim.

And it’s not Henry Canterbury.

This is what he does, though. He pushes through his mistakes and pulls himself up from them, because despite all of the stupidity, Samuel Gladys is good at his job.

So, Samuel looks at his reflection in the mirror one last time, before he pulls himself up and begins to plan.

* * *

**_Unknown Number:  
_ ** _Blaine, please. Call me back. I can explain._

* * *

It’s frustrating, when you’ve just spent months of your life trying to prove that a kid is the worst person to walk this earth, to try and prove that they’re the best. Oh, don’t get Samuel wrong, a lot of things start to make more sense when he comes at it from this angle, and he gets a lot less headaches this way, but it’s slightly disheartening to realise that all your hours of work were pretty much useless.

Samuel is startled out of his work by the sound of his phone ringing. He practically dives across his desk to answer it, desperate for a distraction.

“Samuel Gladys, DA’s office,” he answers smoothly.

A voice sounds down the line, silky and smug – the type that speaks of a volatile mix of confidence and arrogance. “ _Is this who I’m supposed to speak to in order to make a statement about the Henry Canterbury case?”_

Samuel sighs, leaning back in his chair. It’s been a long day. “Yeah,” he says. “You got a name?”

_“Sebastian Smythe.”_

* * *

“Good afternoon,” Samuel says, a relaxed smile on his face as he walks into Henry Canterbury’s office. He closes the door behind himself.

Henry returns the smile with ease. “Good afternoon to you too, Mr Gladys,” he replies. “What can I do for you today?”

Samuel’s smile takes on a slightly sinister edge as he drops a file down on Henry’s desk. Henry’s eyebrows pinch together as he looks down at it.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“That?” Samuel asks, tone falsely light. “Quite possibly the biggest case for obstruction of justice I’ve seen in a long time.”

At Henry’s confused look, Samuel elaborates. It’s all there in that file, he tells him: the guy who he contacted to ask how to make a bruise look like it was the product of sexual assault, the photographer from the parking lot who was paid to say it didn’t look consensual, and Sebastian Smythe – yeah, he likes to party hard, but he has a hell of a lot of weight to his name – who came forward to say he saw it go down in the parking lot and if that encounter wasn’t consensual, then he’s the heir to the throne of England.

By the end of it, Henry’s countenance is a ghostly white.

“I just want to know why,” Samuel says. “Why’d you do it?”

Henry shakes his head. “Why do _you_ think?” he asks bitterly.

Something twists within Samuel’s gut, because he had a part in this. He had a _leading role_ in all of this.

“You’re an adult, Mr Canterbury,” Samuel tells him. “You need to learn that choices have consequences, and they don’t just affect you. They affect people around you too. People like Blaine Anderson. Blaine Anderson – the conscientious, kind, show-tunes loving, old-ladies-stranded-across-busy-roads-helping _honour student_ – who has had his entire future ripped out from his hands because _you_ have daddy issues.”

And then, because he _can,_ because he wants to see the disgust he feels written all over Henry Canterbury’s face as well, Samuel drops the incident report from the gay-bashing incident outside North Westerville High’s Sadie Hawkins Dance in front of Henry’s face.

“Well, guess, what?” Samuel goes on. “You’re not the first to try.”

Samuel lets it settle in for a while. “You have a choice, Mr Canterbury,” he informs him softly. “You can either do the right thing, or you can do nothing. Either way, you’re not going to be remembered well.”

Samuel turns and leaves.

OK, so, yeah, what he’s done would probably be seen as skating around blackmail by a jury, but he doesn’t care. After spending so many months of his life sticking his neck out to try and have Blaine Anderson lynched, for once, Samuel thinks it’s about time someone on the right side – on _their_ side – started to fight for him.

* * *

Blaine finds out that they’re dropping the charges against him due to lack of evidence just two weeks after he turns down the plea deal.

Penelope calls to tell him the good news just hours after it’s confirmed, but she’s quick to inform him that he’s not out of the news cycle yet. To a lot of people, this isn’t a not-guilty; it’s a not-guilty-today. It’s not like people will change their views of him overnight, she tells him, so for both of their sakes, it’s probably best if he sticks to the three cardinal rules.

It feels kind of anticlimactic.

Shaking his head at it all, Blaine wonders if it speaks of how messed up this has made him that he feels almost cheated by this.

His therapist – who he hasn’t seen in a long while now – would probably tell him that it’s perfectly natural for his emotions to be rioting right now. He can feel it all at once – angry that they get to push him so far and give up, because it was a mistake; glad that he never took the plea deal; resentful of their mistakes – but mostly, mostly, Blaine just wants to sleep.

It’s all he’s really wanted to do for a long time: go to sleep and pray that it will all be okay when he wakes up.

So he does.

He ignores his parents when they ask him what the phone call was about – their first contact with him that week – and traipses up to his room. He drops into bed, bones aching and brain foggy, and lets sleep take him.

* * *

 

**_The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:  
_ ** _Hey, heard the good news! Is it weird if I say congratulations?_

When the story hits news circulation, the first contact any of his friends or acquaintances initiate comes from Kurt. Blaine smiles down at his phone. _No,_ he taps out, _it’s not weird. Thanks, though._

Kurt’s reply buzzes in barely seconds later.

**_The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:  
_ ** _So, how does it feel to be a free man, Blaine?_

Blaine manages a full smile. He types out one last text before he puts his phone away for the drive to school.

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _It feels pretty great, thanks Kurt._

* * *

**_Wes:  
_ ** _Just saw the news, Blaine, and thought I’d drop you a text to let you know how happy I am for you. I believed in you right from the start, okay? Lots of purely platonic and manly hugs and kisses –Wes_

**_Nick:  
_ ** _dude just saw the stry on the web. congratulations!!!_

**_David:  
_ ** _Wes just woke me up to tell me the fantastic news. I’m so happy for you, man!_

**_JEFF!!!!!:  
_ ** _FREEDOM, BLAINE!!!!! CONGRATS! This calls for celebrations! Minus the alcohol, though, seeing as that’s kind of how you got into this whole mess in the first place, but still! CONGRATULATIONS, DUDE!_

**_Unknown Number:  
_ ** _Blaine, it’s Sebastian. Look, B, I’m so sorry about what happened. I didn’t think and I just – I didn’t think. Heard they dropped the charges, though, so congrats on that. I’m still really, really sorry though. Please, just call me back, okay?_

**_Trent:  
_ ** _Congratulations, man. I knew that you couldn’t have done any of that stuff. You’re welcome back to the Warblers whenever, so drop me a line if you want to come back._

**_David:  
_ ** _Wait, Blaine, I just realised: you’re going to have the BEST essay ever to write for your college applications! Like, talk about overcoming personal hardship of shit-tastic levels. See you at school, Blaine._

* * *

And just like that, things change.

Some things get better. Others don’t.

For one, the Warblers are speaking to Blaine again now, even if Blaine still hasn’t reclaimed his position as lead soloist. Thad personally apologises for essentially strong-arming everyone else into kicking Blaine out, but Blaine, as always, laughs him off and tells him not to sweat it. Thad grins, like he was expecting that response, and for a second, Blaine wonders if he’s being too forgiving. The last thing he wants to do is give the impression to Thad that he’s had it _easy_ these past few months, but before Blaine can say anything, Thad slaps him cheerfully on the back and cuts the conversation short by leaving.

For two, Blaine’s around ninety per-cent certain that the maybe-more-than-just-a-crush he has on Kurt is one-hundred per cent reciprocated and _totally_ worth acting on. He’s not going to do anything, though, because no matter what Wes says, ten per cent of anything _is_ a significant portion, and the friendship thing they have going for them is pretty amazing.

It’s stopped being about Blaine using Kurt to work through his issues and started being about enjoying each other’s’ company. Kurt’s _sharp_ and different in a way that Blaine has never met before. Perceptive. Witty. Sometimes a bit mean. He couldn’t give two shits about decorum, as well, and given Blaine’s own experience with that particular part of the Dalton Honour Code, that’s a plus in his book.

Actually, yeah. Kurt’s pretty much the single best thing about it all coming to a close.

For three, Blaine finally calls Sebastian back. It feels like a mistake at the time, but they talk and it makes things slightly better. They’re not friends, and after Blaine finds out that it was Sebastian’s coming forward as a witness that made them drop the case, there are more than a few accusations of lying to try and win back their friendship, at least until Sebastian practically screams that he’d never do that, because of his father and his father’s job and the fact that he has too much to lose. They’re not friends, but Blaine doesn’t push Sebastian away anymore, and the relationship feels like it’s on the mend.

For four, Cooper is back in the country. He lands back in LA a few days after the story hits the news and the first thing he does is send a long string of panicked texts to Blaine. He’s pissed that Blaine didn’t call, but says he understands. _But_ , Cooper is, no matter what, always, always – as he passionately declares down the phone to Blaine – ready to go to war on his little brother’s behalf.

It’s sweet and, as Blaine glances across the living room at the stony faces of his parents, just what he needs to hear.

Blaine’s still not sure of so much, like his future, or how he’s going to pay for college now that his parents are talking about cutting him off, or how this next year’s going to go, but he thinks maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to manage.

Then there are the things that aren’t so great.

At Dalton, Blaine’s still an outcast.

It’s not as bad anymore, and the notes and offensive graffiti have stopped, but there’s still some sort of stigma attached to Blaine. Crowded hallways still part like the red sea for Blaine. Conversation still stops every time Blaine enters a room. Blaine still eats lunch alone when Wes, David, Nick and Jeff can’t make it.

And, Headmaster Vandemeer makes clear, he’s still not welcome back next year.

After he gets out of _that_ particular one-on-one with the headmaster, Blaine doesn’t know how to feel. It may have its faults – being full of pretentious assholes seems to be one of them, unfortunately – but Dalton is still his home. It’s where he learned and grew. It’s the place that shaped him into the person he is today.

He remembers his first term at Dalton, when he and his father were fighting, and just _breathing_ seemed to hurt his ribs. He remembers Wes and David worming their way into his heart, followed by an enthusiastic and tactless Jeff and his best friend, Nick. He remembers turning up, soaked through to the skin, on the doorstep of Wes’ dorm room, because he needed a place to sleep that night, and it was the only place he could think of.

Dalton is so, so many things to Blaine.

A safe haven.

It’s always been a safe haven.

It will always _be_ a safe haven. Just—

Not for Blaine. Not anymore.

* * *

**_The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:  
_ ** _Hey, Blaine. Sorry I missed your call – I was meeting with the guidance counsellor. Do you need something?_

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _It’s fine, don’t worry, Kurt._

**_The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:  
_ ** _You can’t see me right now, but I’m raising my eyebrows incredulously._

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _It’s nothing, Kurt. Seriously. Don’t worry._

**_The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:  
_ ** _Don’t lie to me, Blaine._

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _Not lying, Kurt._

**_The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:  
_ ** _Fine. Open your front door._

* * *

Blaine flings open his front door barely seconds after receiving the text, and, yeah, Kurt was right – it’s really not nothing.

After filing into Blaine’s house and trudging up the stairs to Blaine’s room, Kurt throws himself back on his bed. “So,” he says, rolling over to face Blaine. “You wanna let me in on why you decided to call me in the middle of what I _know_ was your chemistry lesson?”

Blaine sighs and sinks into the mattress beside Kurt. He fits easily there nestled into the other teen’s side. “I,” Blaine starts, “I wasn’t in chemistry. The headmaster called me into his office for another chat.”

Kurt can feel Blaine drumming his fingers against his leg, the tiny vibrations reverberating up through his spine. “Did he want to apologise, or something?” Kurt asks.

“No,” Blaine exhales. “He, uh, just wanted to let me know that I wouldn’t really be, uh, welcome at Dalton next year.”

Kurt sits up, pursing his lips into a thin, white line. He knows his silence is probably not the most reassuring answer he can give Blaine right now, but it’s better than the _other_ choice things he’s thinking about saying.

Kurt’s been through utter _shit_ this year, and he’s not trying to hide it from anyone any more. Despite the fact that his black eye has long since faded, Kurt knows that he has issues left over from the Karofsky Debacle – issues that he’s sort of been projecting onto Blaine – but their friendship is more than the sum of their problems.

They’re friends. Maybe more. _Hopefully_ something more. Okay, definitely _something_ more.

Kurt takes a deep breath, calming himself down before he speaks to Blaine. “Oh, Blaine,” he says in what he hopes is a sympathetic tone, wrapping his arms around the shorter teenager.

“It sucks,” comes Blaine’s earnest reply.

“Yeah.”

And then Kurt freezes, realising where he is.

He’s barely inches away from Blaine’s face, their noses ghosting against each other, gazes locked, breaths mingling.

_Screw it all,_ he thinks, and closes his eyes, and takes a leap.

Blaine tastes like peppermint.

* * *

Kurt tastes like—

Blaine doesn’t care. He just wraps his arms around Kurt’s neck and loses himself in the kiss.

This kiss isn’t worth the crap he went through to get it, but it doesn’t feel anticlimactic. It feels important, treasured and _safe._

Blaine breaks the kiss with a smile, but doesn’t let Kurt go. “Just checking,” he breathes into Kurt’s ear, “because this has gotten me into some trouble before. This is consensual, right?”

 Blaine can feel Kurt smiling against his cheek. “So, so consensual,” Kurt tells him.

“Good.”

And then he kisses Kurt again.

Because he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I may write an epilogue. But for now, THE END, my friends. It's been a long haul and I'm not entirely satisfied with this. But IT'S OVER.
> 
> Check out my [tumblr](http://daswarschonkaputt.tumblr.com)!


	6. the victory dance (epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but here we go. Epilogue, takes place one year later (around abouts). Enjoy.

**-ONE YEAR LATER-**

* * *

**Blaine Anderson Publishes Autobiographical “In Flagrante Delicto”**

My first thought when I heard about the upcoming book from Blaine Anderson was that I was going to have to read it. You don’t get torrid news stories quite like Anderson’s without there being a fair bit of intrigue behind them, and I was certain it would be nothing if not a method with which I could quench my curiosity. Nothing, however, could have truly prepared my for the story which awaited me within the novel’s thick pages.

Telling the tale of Anderson’s involvement in the controversial Henry Canterbury Court Case, _In Flagrante Delicto_ follows the young teen as he battles past an avalanche of bad publicity, the betrayal of his friends and his own inner struggles against a growing self-doubt. It starts and ends bittersweetly, giving the novel a distinct feeling of ‘win some, lose some’ and has a maturity to it that feels out of place coming from the mind of a teenager.

There’s an eloquence to the way Anderson writes that is rare to find in someone his age (barely nineteen) and a natural flow and movement to his writing which draws you in and leaves you unwilling to leave it at any point. The only true way to accurately describe this story is that it is both melancholic and uplifting, both full of desolation and full of hope. It’s the kind of book which leaves you crying and smiling at the same time, desperate for more, but not sure you can take it.

This isn’t a book that’s simply about telling another side of a story we all know. This is a book about a teenaged boy whose life is thrust into disrepair after he makes a drunken mistake and has to fight through the consequences. It’s not about a court case, or a scandal, it’s about a person, and it leaves you wondering how on earth we managed to forget that before.

Elizabeth Saunders, _The New York Times._

* * *

The first time someone tells Blaine that his book – his _life story_ – should be adapted into a film, he laughs. At the time, he’s live on air, sat opposite a British talk show host who gives him a nonplussed look at the amusement playing across Blaine’s face.

Then he blinks and it hits him. “You’re serious?” he asks.

The talk show host nods.

And Blaine freezes.

It hasn’t been an easy journey into adulthood for him, or for anyone involved. After the absolute train wreck that was his junior year at Dalton, Cooper decided that Blaine didn’t suit Ohio any more than Ohio suited Blaine and pulled him out – of school, of his parents’ home – and dragged him halfway across the country to live with him in LA.

It was a fresh start – one which he needed.

Some things, though, Blaine didn’t want a fresh start from. Wes, Nick, Jeff and David – he clung to them through an almost incessant flow of emails and texts and phonecalls. And— _Kurt._ Every time he dropped his hotshot New York boyfriend into conversation, Blaine couldn’t help the smile that stretched at his lips, threatening to take over every muscle in his face.

Out of everything that came out of the clusterfuck that was Blaine’s junior year of high school, Kurt is the only thing that even comes close to making it all worth it. But Blaine refuses to do that – to weigh up all the advantages and disadvantages – because it just makes it all seem so empty and _little._ It wasn’t _little._ It ruined his life.

The book was his way of hammering that fact into every single person in America’s skull.

Blaine didn’t really anticipate the success it would garner.

He was making a _point_ , not a bid for success, but the book took off with explosive, unexpected popularity and once more catapulted him into his least favourite place on earth – the spotlight. It’s better this time, which probably has to do with the fact that it’s _him_ who’s calling the shots, but he doesn’t like this. He can’t quite understand how Cooper lives with this, everyday, non-stop, every moment of his life documented on film and spread around for all the world to see. He doesn’t understand how _anyone_ lives like this.

“So, for the viewers at home who haven’t read the book, what is it about?” the talk show host asks, snapping Blaine back to the present.

Blaine blinks twice, and forces his vocal chords to work. “Well, I’m not sure how much people over here already know about the story, but it all started with what I now know was a rather ill-advised trip to a gay bar in Columbus – a city in Ohio…”

* * *

 

 ** _In Flagrante Delicto_ by Blaine Anderson  
** A review by **beansbeansbeans**

_“There’s a critical difference between fame and infamy. Fame is fleeting – fickle even – and everyone gets their fair fifteen minute share. Infamy, however? That’s a bit more permanent.”_

Those are the words with which we are introduced to the world of Blaine Anderson. His book, _In Flagrante Delicto,_ hit the shelves just last week and I was among the first to grab a copy and dig into it.

Unlike most of the people who followed this story, I was there right from the start. I live in Ohio, in the same town as the elusive Blaine Anderson did, and for nearly three years, he was a loyal customer at the coffee shop where I work.

You’ll probably cringe to hear the next part, but I’m not one of the people who can stand up and self-righteously declare that they stood by Blaine’s side right from the start. I was right there among his most fervent haters. I took one look at the story, at Henry Canterbury pressed against the wall of a gay bar by Blaine Anderson and I thought, ‘I can’t believe I used to give that guy free biscotti.’ I even posted about it, and was among his most vocal attackers. And then, when they dropped the charges and he made his emotional and gut-wrenching statement to the press, I thought, ‘I can’t believe I stopped giving this guy free biscotti.’

Because that’s the truly tragic thing about Blaine Anderson’s story. _He wasn’t the guilty one._

So, when his book was published last week, I thought that I owed it to him to at least hear him out this one last time.

It made me cry. Poignant and striking – this is the type of book that makes you want to lose faith in people altogether. Because, for the majority of the Henry Canterbury Court Case, to everyone following its progress on the news, it was about Blaine Anderson, a spoilt rich kid who got drunk, got handsy and got himself arrested.

It wasn’t about Blaine Anderson, the victim of a brutal gay-bashing who pulled himself back together against all the odds. It wasn’t about Blaine Anderson, who lost his entire life in the ensuing scandal, who lost his place at the one school he felt safe, who lost his reputation and his parents’ respect. It wasn’t about Blaine Anderson, _the real victim._

It’s not a sad story, though. Not really. Yes, the misery in Blaine’s tone and the simple brilliance of his writing stir something deep and powerful within you, but this story is full of hope. You see the behind the scenes things which the news media missed.

You see the fact that even when we all screamed for his blood, Blaine had four amazing friends at his school, who, even though everyone else turned on him, stood by him and pulled through for himwhen it _mattered._ You see that Blaine’s brother – who, in a twist of fate was revealed to be _the_ Cooper Anderson – would have dropped everything in an instant and been there for him, even though he was thousands of miles away in the Gambia at the time.

And lastly, you see how in amongst all the shit that happened to him, Blaine Anderson found and fell in love with his current long-term boyfriend.

So, no, I’m not just recommending this book to you because I feel that everyone out there should read and pay attention to Blaine Anderson’s story. I mean, I do think that, but that’s not why I’m sat here, typing into a word document at half eleven at night. I’m recommending this book because it made me _think_ about my values, about how I judge people, and because I truly think that this story could change your life.

POSTED **2 DAYS AGO** WITH **3,410 NOTES**  
#book rec #Blaine Anderson #In Flagrante Delicto

 **so-i-joined-a-cult** Hands down, this was one of the best books I have ever read. $8.99 well spent.

 **vampiresvsninjas** I want a film adaptation. Like, a full-on, theatrical release, big deal film adaptation, with critical accolades and a fucking Oscar for best script handed to Blaine Anderson.

 **whothefuckismoriarty** What I love especially about this book is the way he talks about Henry Canterbury. Because, you know what? If it had been me, I would drag that guy through the mud. I’d be cussing every second page, because I was so pissed at him. But Blaine? All he does – and to me, it’s even better than a slap to Canterbury Jr’s face – is outright _pity_ him. It’s the ultimate one-upmanship. Because Blaine Anderson is so _superior_ to Henry Canterbury that he’s not angry at him, he just feels _sorry_ for him.

 **thunderbirdisamailclient** I think I fell just a tiny bit in love with him each chapter.

* * *

It wasn’t Blaine’s idea to write the book.

Cooper got on his case about going to therapy sometime after his third middle-of-the-night panic attack, and Blaine, not one for arguing, agreed. The writing it all out thing was something she suggested, citing it as therapeutic, and the publishing the finished product was also her recommendation, declaring it ‘closure’ for Blaine.

Reality looks a little different.

It doesn’t feel like closure to Blaine. It feels like a victory dance.

And that kind of makes him feel like crap.

* * *

_“I’m not gonna lie; there was a time when my only quibble with murdering Henry Canterbury would have been whether to drown him in acid or burn him alive, but this isn’t all about me. Henry Canterbury may have completely derailed my life as I knew it, but someone did that to him first. I get it, I really do, because I agree: his father shouldn’t be allowed to preach family values with the same voice that he fights to take away his son’s rights, but I just wished someone would have stopped, and thought. Because – and I know this better than anyone – having details about your private and personal life splashed over the papers and morphed into some sort of horrific scandal is the type of thing that really, really sucks.”_

_-_ Blaine Anderson, AKA a fucking SAINT of a person

* * *

The second time someone tells him that they want to make his book into a movie, Blaine isn’t laughing. He’s out for lunch with Kurt – Burt bought them plane tickets to see each other for Christmas – and for the first time in a long time, he’s feeling good about his life, in control and ahead of the curve. Under the table, Kurt’s fingers are dancing across his knee, and above the table, Kurt’s smiling at Blaine like he’s mapping out every last inch of their time together and it’s the most beautiful blueprint he could ever create.

The man – a typical bigwig producer with far too much money and a charm that is simply _smarmy_ – approaches their secluded table, thick lips twisted into a smile and dark glasses perched on top of his slightly crooked, tanned nose. He positions himself just outside of Blaine’s personal space, and Blaine feels Kurt’s hand freeze on his knee.

“Blaine Anderson, right?” he asks, sticking out his hand for Blaine to take.

Blaine takes the hand gingerly. It’s damp with sweat.

“Can I?” the man asks but doesn’t wait for an answer before he pulls up a chair and slouches at their table in between him and Kurt. Behind the stranger’s chunky frame, Kurt raises his eyebrow, expression just _dripping_ ‘unimpressed’.

“So I read your book,” the man tells them, and Blaine can tell where this is going. “Loved it – absolutely loved it. Such a striking concept, and so well executed.”

“You want to turn it into a movie,” Blaine surmises calmly.

The man nods. “Bright one you are,” he confirms. “Could tell that from the book, though. But I’m sensing a bit of apprehension, so,” he retrieves a business card from his suit jacket, “think it over and give me a call if you decide the answer is yes.”

Blaine stares at the business card in the man’s hand for a few moments before he realises he’s supposed to take it. Taking the expensive feeling piece of card in his fingers, Blaine scans over the embossed font on the front. _KEITH POLLO, PRODUCER FOR POSTHASTE STUDIOS,_ the card reads.

Blaine lifts his eyes to the man – presumably Keith Pollo – and raises his eyebrows to ask if this is all.

Thankfully, Keith gets the hint. “Right,” he declares, slapping both of them on their shoulders. “I’ll leave you to your meal.” He heaves himself up and saunters away.

Once they’re alone again, Blaine rolls the business card over and over again between his fingers, and now Kurt’s looking at him like—

Like he did at the beginning. Like a puzzle. Like a broken thing to put back together.

But then Kurt just says, “You don’t want this, do you?”

And he’s right, of course he’s right. “No.”

Maybe it’s because of how their relationship started, but Kurt and Blaine operate pretty much entirely on subtext around each other. There are three levels to every conversation they have – what’s being said, what’s _not_ being said, and what’s meant – and Blaine’s thankful, truly, because if it were any other way, their insecurities would probably tear their relationship apart.

So Blaine can say, “I hate him, Kurt,” and Kurt will hear, _I hate him, I pity him, and no matter what I do, it’s like I can’t get rid of him from my life._ And Kurt can say, “You don’t want this, do you?” and Blaine will hear, _Just give me the all clear, Blaine, and no matter what, I will get you an out._

Kurt reaches across their table and plucks the business card out of Blaine’s hand. He pauses, gives Blaine a chance to protest, and the unceremoniously dunks it in the flame of the tiny tealight on their table. The business card barely resists and then flickers into ignition and Kurt calmly drops the burning card into his empty wine glass.

Kurt shrugs. “Don’t do things that make you unhappy.”

_Don’t be an idiot, I love you._

Kurt’s sudden burst of pyromania sets off the fire alarms in the restaurant, and they end up doused in a shower of freezing water. They kiss like that, though, water pouring down on top of them, and Blaine feels like he’s in a movie – the good kind, without sex-scandals and disownment – and he’s just reached the end.

Happily ever after, he thinks, and kisses Kurt again.

* * *

 

 **In Flagrante Delicto  
** Blaine Anderson

**_Dedication_ **   
_To Wes, David, Nick and Jeff, thank you._   
_To Kurt, my friend, confidante,_   
_character witness and one true love of my life._   
_It’s just as well I’m terrible at espionage, is it not?_


End file.
